


have nothing to defend

by jesseofthenorth



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Angst, Avengers Cinematic Universe, Cussing, F-bombs ahead, microscopically slashy, minor gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesseofthenorth/pseuds/jesseofthenorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson takes a moment to wash away blood that isn't his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	have nothing to defend

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'way of the warrior' by Carlos Castaneda and don Jaun, which I highly recommend.
> 
> Un-betaed because I lack patience

Phil Coulson knew what they thought of him, all the arrogant little assholes with badges so new the shine wasn't even off yet. God knows he's heard it often enough in the halls of SHEILD, when they thought he couldn't hear.

Stuffed shirt. Paper pusher. Suit. Rubber Gun. Glorified baby-sitter to a herd of super-heroes. Those made him laugh. Little pricks, if only they knew.

None of it really bothered him. He knew the truth and in 25 or so years they would to. When they had given what he'd given, paid their dues in blood and skin and friends and loss. Coulson didn't really begrudge them their ignorance. For all that they where the best to be had, young and eager and whip-smart, not one of them really knew what a lifetime of service to SHEILD really meant. They didn't have the miles on them he did, and he couldn't blame them for that, the little pissants.

The ones that lasted would figure it out. The ones that didn't would either be dead or washed out, and it would matter even less what they thought of him. Phil Coulson knew who he was and what he'd paid and that was alright. Mostly.  
Except once in awhile it wasn't.

Like today. Today he arrived at head quarters bruised and beaten, dried blood stiffening on his shoulder and arm. Phil Coulson was so tired his bones ached from it and he didn't have time for proper sleep but he was making time to wash the blood off.

He bypassed medical, for the time being, because it wasn't his blood. He headed toward the lockers, stone faced and fighting hard to keep it that way. He could feel like shit later. There where things that needed doing now.

He grabbed a towel and his kit and headed for the shower, hoping it was empty but not really giving that much of a shit. He was used to sharing the space after all, he just didn't want any questions or looks or friendly conversation.

The need to be clean was getting more urgent by the second. Phil could smell Clint's blood and he had to get it off his skin before the urge to claw it off with his fucking nails took over.

Phil took a deep breath, he couldn't lose it now. He just needed to get clean, wash it away; the smell, the blood, the immediacy of the fight. Then he could get on to the next thing. Put on clean clothes. Go to medical. See for himself Barton was alive. One thing at a time.

He dropped his kit on a bench and started methodically stripping off his clothes, focusing on carefully undoing buttons, even though he really wanted to rip and tear and just get it off. Fuck. He took another deep breath and forced calm to over take him.

He grabbed his towel and headed for the showers, dropping the clothes into the nearest trash. Dolce or not there was no saving them and Phil was pretty sure he wouldn't wear any of it again, not after today. Fury could just suck it and replace them.

He stepped into the stall, hit the auto-tap and stepped under the cold spray, knowing it would warm fast, but needing the jolt cold water would give him. He kept his eyes on the tile in front of him, not wanting to see the blood washing down the drain.

Soap. He needed soap.

What he really needed was distance and perspective.

He would settle for soap and hot water.

When Phil was sure it was safe, he looked down and started scrubbing. He didn't usually look when he showering, his body didn't change much from one shower to the next . Usually he just soaped up rinsed and got out. Today he needed the reminder of all the battles fought, won and survived.

The proof was there on the surface of his skin. He could trace every skirmish they had fought since the day he had met the mouthy asshole. Burns, and slices, and road rash, one bullet hole, and two flesh wounds. There was even the scar left behind by one of Barton's custom made broad-heads.

Phil was unreasonably proud of that scar. One of the few times someone had snuck up on 'Hawkeye worlds greatest marksmen' and lived to tell the tale. The thought didn't bring a smile. Instead he traced over the newest mark, still raw and bleeding a little, in fact. An angry red slice across his arm, left by a knife seconds before it buried itself in Clint's chest.

The thought made him flinch, which in turn made Phil slightly disgusted with himself. It wouldn't do any good to shy away from it. Clint Barton was hurt injured as badly as he had ever been, and the last words Phil Coulson had said to him, “God dammit Barton!” was not the last thing Phil ever wanted to say to Clint.

He could be dying on a gurney while Phil stood here lamenting, and washing away blood. He got his ass moving and finished fast.

Less than five minutes later Phil was wearing the street clothes in his locker not giving a single good-god-dam that it was jeans and a Henley instead of a suit. He wasn't taking the time to go to his office to change. Fuck that.

He got in the elevator and hit the button with an 'H' inside a circle, and went to see if he would still have Barton to harass him tomorrow.

He didn't bother denying how dreadful the thought of a negative answer made him feel. They had been partners and friends too long for that shit. At the very least he owed Clint, and his loyalty, the honest admission that the thought of Clint dying scared the shit out of him.

 

****

 

Fury was waiting for him. Standing outside the curtained off cubicle where Barton was waiting to go into surgery.

“I'm putting you on administrative leave.”

“Sir-”

“No fault, administrative leave.”

“Sir-”

“I wasn't asking for an opinion.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Fury looked at him for a moment and Coulson tried to center himself hoping that Fury saw he wasn't in danger of losing it. Fury nodded once.

“No fault, Coulson. He'd be dead if he had a lesser partner.”

Fury turned and walked toward the elevator. He stopped a nurse on his way “See that his arm gets stitched.” Fury told her and went on his way.

Phil didn't bother watching the doors close, he pulled the curtain back only far enough to look in.

Barton was gray, skin the color of paste, lips a pale blue. Three IV bags and oxygen and blood soaked bandages on his chest told Phil as much as the flurry of activity around him. Two nurses and a doctor all moving fast and efficiently.

“Okay we're moving him!”

Phil pulled the curtain all the way back and got the hell out of the way as the gurney and personnel and Barton rushed by heading for an OR. He watched the doors snap shut behind them and he watched as they ran down the hall.

The pit of his stomach flooded with cold as they disappeared around a corner.

“Agent Coulson?”

Phil turned his head toward the familiar voice. Ann-Marie. He remembered her from one to many trips here in the past. She was holding a suture tray in one hand and gesturing toward a gurney with the other.

He let his head droop a bit and did as he was asked.

Six stitches later and he was as good as new. It would barely leave a scar. The thought didn't make him feel better. He could live with it though if Barton got a chance to scar instead of dying from a knife wound. Stupid bastard.

Phil pulled his Henley back on and settled into a hard backed plastic chair to wait. He was not aware of the moment when waiting became unconsciousness.

 

****

 

“Agent Coulson?”

Phil snapped awake instantly, alert and looking for the fight.

Oh. Ann-Marie.

He blinked at her and rubbed his sleep-slack face trying to wake up his brain. Why was he here again?

“They are moving him out of recovery. If wanted to see him....?”

Shit. Barton. Hawkeye. Clint. Shit.

“Yeah.” Phil ground out and got to his feet, slower than usual trying not to betray the fatigue that had settled deeper into his bones while he slept. He followed her brisk pace, not asking questions, or seeking to distract himself. Best to face what ever there was head on.

Ann-Marie lead him to a private room, which was not good news. He already suspected the degree of Clint's injury. The fact that Clint was given privacy and quiet only served to prove his need for a greater degree of healing. ”But he's alive” Phil thought, he'd take what he could get, for now.

Phil didn't let himself hesitate at the door.


End file.
